‘Are you sure?’ Joe never noticed cars and, in his experience, women were even less likely to be aware of them.

‘Oh yes, Sergeant.’ For the first time Laurie grinned. ‘I’m an expert. All my previous offences have been vehicle-related.’

Jane invited him to stay for tea and mince pies, but he looked out of the window at the snow still covering much of the ground and said he should leave. He’d just stood up when Laurie spoke again. ‘Someone should make sure that Dee knows Margaret is dead.’

‘Dee?’ Now all he wanted to do was get out of this place. In this weather the countryside held less appeal. He wasn’t sure he’d want to live in Holypool after all.

‘Dee Robson, one of our former residents.’ Jane walked with him past the Christmas tree and into the hall so that they wouldn’t be overheard, and they continued the conversation by the front door. ‘She never settled here. Not her fault perhaps. She has minor learning difficulties that were never picked up at school, a chaotic childhood.’ Jane gave a brief grin. ‘We have very few rules here, but Dee broke every one of them. Booze, men, aggression – you name it. In the end the other residents forced her out. But Margaret developed a special relationship with her and continued to mentor Dee even when she left. She didn’t judge her. I’m not quite sure how Dee will cope without her.’

‘Where does Dee live now?’

‘In Mardle, in a flat in Percy Street.’ Jane opened the door. ‘You will get someone to tell her, won’t you Sergeant, and check that she’s okay? She’ll have a social worker. Some poor soul trying to keep her safe.’

He nodded and wondered why Jane’s charity didn’t run to her telling Dee about Margaret’s killing. Outside it seemed a little milder and the snow was now soft and damp. As he turned back to the house he saw Emily, the pale teenager, staring back at him through an upstairs window. He was reminded of a children’s fairy tale, a princess imprisoned in a tower.

Chapter Thirteen

Vera had found a cafe in the centre of Mardle on the other side of the street from the health centre. A new place with a hissing coffee machine and fancy buns. She’d already been into the medical centre and had been told by an unhelpful receptionist that Margaret Krukowski wasn’t a patient and that she couldn’t tell the inspector if, or where, Margaret had been treated for cancer. Vera drank tea and ate a sandwich, feeling virtuous because she chose wholemeal bread. When she finished eating she got Holly on the phone. ‘I need to track down Margaret’s GP. Can you sort that for me, Hol?’

And Holly, still mellow because she’d be all over the local media, agreed without a murmur.